Beowulf

by Caitlin R. Kiernan

  “Shut up,” barks Unferth, producing the golden horn from a fold of his robes. It glistens in the firelight, and Sigga’s eyes grow very wide and she quickly turns away, staring into the hearth flames. “So now you see,” sneers Unferth. “The prize that Beowulf won thirty years ago, lost all these years in the black depths of Weormgræf when he battled the demon hag.”

  “Is that true?” Unferth asks Sigga, his voice trembling now with excitement. “Is that what this is, Hrothgar’s royal drinking horn?”

  “Please,” says Sigga. “Put it away.” She licks her lips and swallows, and though there are beads of sweat standing out on her forehead and cheeks, she tosses another block of peat onto the fire and stirs at the embers with an iron poker.

  Guthric looks confused, but motions for his father to hide the horn once more beneath his robes. Unferth ignores him and takes a step nearer the place where Sigga sits.

  “Is something wrong, witch?” he asks. “Does it so upset you to be wrong about the boasts of men?”

  “Sigga, is this Hrothgar’s horn?” Guthric asks again, and she glances at him uneasily.

  “She does not know,” snickers Unferth. “This bitch does not know what she sees. Let us take our leave, my son, and never again darken this vile doorstep.”

  And now Sigga turns slowly toward Unferth, but she keeps her green eyes downcast, staring at the dirty straw covering the floor so she won’t see the glimmering object clasped in the old man’s hands.

  “You listen to me, Unferth Ecglaf’s son, and heed my words. I cannot say for certain what that thing is, for there is a glamour upon it. The most powerful glamour I have ever glimpsed. There is dökkálfar magic at work here, I believe. I have seen their handiwork before. I have felt them near, when I was yet only a child.”

  “Dökkálfar?” asks Guthric, his tongue fumbling at the unfamiliar word.

  “Aye, the Nidafjöll dark elves,” Sigga replies, and wipes sweat from her face. “People of Svartálfheim, hillfolk, the dwellers in the Dark Fells.”

  “Heathen nonsense,” scoffs Unferth. “Faerie tales. I thought you had no use for faerie stories, Guthric, but you bring me to hear them uttered by a lunatic.”

  “Hear me,” whispers Sigga, her voice gone dry and hoarse. “I do not say these things lightly. Whatever it is, this horn you hold, it was not meant to be found. Or, it was meant to be found by something that harbors an ancient hatred and would see the world of men suffer.”

  “She’s insane,” Unferth chuckles. “Come now, my son, let’s leave this wicked place. It should be razed and the earth here salted. And this witch should be stoned to death or burned at the stake.”

  Sigga clenches her fists and smiles, and now the sweat from her face has begun to drip to the straw and dirt at her feet.

  “Do not trouble yourself, Ecglaf’s son, for you hold this kingdom’s doom there in your hands. The one from whom that horn was stolen, she will soon come to reclaim it, her or one very like her, for it has been brought to Heorot in violation of some blood pact. A binding has been broken, and I would have you know that I will try to be far away from this village and our King Beowulf ere its owner misses it and comes calling.”

  “A pact?” asks Guthric, his curiosity piqued. “What manner of pact?” And Sigga turns and stares at him a moment, then looks back to the fire.

  “I do not know, Guthric, why you come here. You do not believe—”

  “I believe all is not what it seems with our king,” Guthric tells her. “I believe there are secrets, secrets that have robbed my father of the throne and myself of princedom. And I would know these secrets.”

  Sigga takes a deep breath and exhales with a shudder. “Child, you come always asking questions, but ever you seek only the answers that would make you happy, the answers which you believe you know already. And I ask you, please take this accursed thing from my home.”

  “I will, Sigga. My father and I will take our leave and never come here again, but first, you will tell me of this pact.”

  “She knows nothing,” grumbles Unferth, tucking the golden horn away. “Leave her be. I have business with the king.”

  “She knows something, Father. She would not be so frightened if she knew nothing.”

  Sigga stirs at the fire and shakes her head. “I listen to the trees,” she says. “The trees tell me things. The rocks speak to me. I speak with bogs and birds and squirrels. They tell me what men have forgotten or have never known.”

  “Guthric, do not be a fool. She talks to rocks,” says Unferth, tapping at the floor with his staff. “She talks to squirrels.”

  But Guthric ignores his father and leans closer to Sigga. “And what do they tell you?” he asks. “What have they told you of King Beowulf?”

  “It is your death, that horn,” she says, almost too quietly for Guthric to hear. “And still, you care only for your question. Fine. Then I will tell you this,” and she sets the poker aside, leaning it against the hearth.

  “She is a madwoman,” says Unferth. “Leave her be.”

  “There is a tale,” says Sigga, “a story that the spruces growing at the edge of the bog whisper among themselves at the new moon. That Lord Beowulf made a pact with the merewife that he would become King of the Ring Danes and Lord of Heorot, and that this same pact was made with King Hrothgar before him.

  “What is this merewife?” asks Guthric, and Sigga makes a whistling sound between her teeth.

  “That I do not know. She has many names. She may have been worshipped as a goddess, once. Some have called her Njördr, wife of Njord, and others have named her Nerthus, earth mother. I do not believe that. She is something crawled up from the sea, I think, a terrible haunt from Ægir’s halls. Long has she dwelled in the tarn your father calls Weormgraef, and in unseen caverns leading back to the sea. By her, Hrothgar sired his only son.”

  “How much more of this nonsense must we listen to? Have you not heard enough?” asks Unferth, stalking back and forth near the door, but Guthric shushes him.

  “Hrothgar sired no sons,” says Guthric. “This is why the kingdom could be passed to the Geat so readily.”

  “He sired one,” Sigga replies. “The monster Grendel, whom Beowulf slew. That was Hrothgar’s gift to the merewife, in exchange for his crown.”

  “You cannot believe this,” says Guthric, looking toward his father, who has opened the cottage door and is staring out at the snow and the sleigh, Cain and the darkening sky.

  “I tell you what the trees tell me,” she answers. “Grendel was Hrothgar’s child. But the pact was broken when Hrothgar allowed Beowulf to slay the merewife’s son. So, she took her revenge on both men—”

  “I’ve heard enough,” says Guthric, standing and stepping away from the hearth. “I’m sure there is some speck of truth in this, somewhere. I have always known that Beowulf could not have come by the throne honestly. But I cannot believe in sea demons, nor that Hrothgar sired a monster.”

  “You hear that which you wish to hear,” Sigga sighs. “Your ears are closed to all else. But I will show you something, Unferth’s son, before you take your leave.” And at that she reaches one hand into the red-hot coals and pulls out a glowing lump of peat. It lies in her palm, and her flesh does not blister or burn. “I brought you into Midgard, and I would have you know the danger that is now upon us all.”

  The ember in her hand sparks, then seems to unfold like the petals of a heather flower. “Watch,” she says, and the flames become golden wings and glittering scales, angry red eyes and razor talons. “He is coming,” she says. “Even as we speak, he is on his way.” And then Sigga tilts her hand, and the coal tumbles back into the fire. “If you care for your wife and children, Guthric, you will take them and run. You will leave Heorot and not look back.”

  Then the head of Unferth’s staff comes down hard against the back of Sigga’s skull, and there’s a sickening crunch before she slumps from the stool and lies dead before the hearth.

  “Will you leave her n
ow?” Unferth asks his son. “Or do you wish to remain here and keep her corpse from getting lonely?”

  “Father…” gasps Guthric, the image of the dragon still dancing before his eyes. “What she said. I saw it.”

  “Fine,” growls Unferth, wiping the blood from his staff. “Then go home to your wife and children. Run away, if cowardice suits you so well. Hide somewhere and cower from the lies this witch whore has told you. But I have business at the keep, and I will wait no longer. Already, the day is fading, and you have cost me hours I did not have to spare.”

  “You saw it, too,” Guthric says.

  “I saw a sorcerer’s trickery,” replies Unferth, and he turns and walks back to the sleigh as quickly as his bent and aching bones will allow. Later, he thinks, he will send men to feed the woman’s carcass to the pigs and burn the hovel. Cain sits shivering pitifully beneath his blanket and does not say a word as Unferth climbs aboard the sleigh and takes up the reins in both his hands. When he looks up, Guthric is watching him from the doorway of the witch’s foul abode.

  “Are you coming with me?” Unferth asks.

  “You saw it,” Guthric says again. “Maybe it was something you knew all along. Either way, I must go to my wife and to my children now. We must leave Heorot while there is still time.”

  “I thought you did not believe in stories of monsters and demons,” laughs Unferth as he turns the ponies around in the narrow alleyway outside the hovel. “I thought you even doubted the God and savior whose cross you wear there round about your neck. But now, now you will flee from a dragon? Fine. Do as you will, son.” And then Unferth whips at the ponies’ backs with the reins, and they neigh and champ at their bits and carry him and Cain and the golden horn away into the white storm.

  This near to midwinter, the days are almost as short as Danish days may be, hardly six hours from dawn until dusk, and by the time Unferth has secured an audience in the antechamber behind the king’s dais, the sun has set, and night has fallen. Already, the celebration in the horned hall has begun in earnest, and from the other side of the door come drunken shouts and music, the songs of scops and the rowdy laughter of thanes and their women. There is but a single table in the room and a single empty chair. Unferth pushes back the hood of his cloak and stomps his feet against the stone floor, dislodging muddy clumps of melting snow. Behind him, Cain stands shivering and staring out at the balcony and the dark sea beyond. There is a small fire burning in the fireplace, but the room is still so cold that their breath fogs.

  Then the door leading out to the dais and the mead hall opens, and the noise of the celebration grows suddenly louder, but it is not King Beowulf come to speak with him, only Wiglaf, and Unferth curses silently.

  “Unferth, you’re not celebrating your king’s glory tonight?” Wiglaf asks, and Unferth glares at the open door until Wiglaf shuts it again. “You and your family are missed in the hall,” adds Wiglaf.

  “I have brought something for the king,” Wiglaf says, and he holds up the golden horn, wrapped in a fold of his robes.

  Wiglaf extends his hand. “Then you’ll show it to me first.”

  “Bollocks, Wiglaf. I’ll show it first to Beowulf. Believe what I say. The king needs to see it!”

  The door opens again, and now Beowulf stands in the entryway, glaring at Unferth. “The king needs to see what?” he asks, and narrows his eyes.

  Unferth steadies himself against that steely gaze and takes a deep breath. His frown melts into a smirk. “A gift fit for a king,” he says. “Lost and now found.”

  Unferth unwraps the golden horn, and once again its curves and the ruby set into the dragon’s throat glitter in the firelight. At the sight of it, Beowulf’s eyes widen with an expression of astonishment and also what Unferth hopes is fear.

  “Do you recognize it, my lord?” asks Unferth, already certain of the answer.

  Beowulf stares at the horn, and for a time there is only the muffled noise from Heorot Hall, the wind howling around the corners of the balcony, the sea slamming itself against the cliffs far, far below.

  “Where did you find…this?” Beowulf asks at last.

  Unferth moves to stand nearer the king, holding the horn up so that Beowulf might have a better view of it.

  “Somewhere in the wilderness beyond the village walls. My slave, Cain…he found it, if the truth be told. He will not say exactly where. I have beaten him, my lord, and still he will not say where it was he came upon it. My lord, isn’t this—”

  “It is nothing!” roars Beowulf, and with a sweep of his arms, he knocks the horn from Unferth’s hands and sends it skidding, end over end, across the floor of the anteroom. The golden horn comes to rest at the feet of Queen Wealthow, who stands in the doorway, behind her husband. She reaches down and lifts the horn, once the finest prize in all King Hrothgar’s treasury.

  “So,” she says. “I see it has come back to you…after all these years.” And she passes the horn to her husband; he takes it from her, but holds it the way a man might hold a venomous serpent.

  “Where is he?” asks Beowulf, and there is a tremor in his voice. “The slave. The slave who found it. Is that him?” And he points toward Cain.

  “Indeed, I have brought him here to you,” replies Unferth, and he turns and seizes Cain by the shoulders, forcing him roughly down upon the floor at Beowulf’s feet.

  “Please,” Cain begs, “please don’t kill me, my king.”

  Beowulf kneels beside Cain and shows him the horn. “Where did you find this treasure?” he asks.

  Cain shakes his head and looks away, staring instead at the floor. “I…I’m sorry I ran away, my lord. Please…don’t hurt me anymore.”

  At that, Unferth kicks Cain as hard as he can, and the slave cries out in pain and terror. “Answer your king!” snarls Unferth.

  “Stop!” orders Beowulf, glaring up at Unferth. “He will tell us nothing if you beat him senseless.”

  Cain gasps, and now his lips are flecked with blood. “I didn’t steal it,” he says. “I swear, I didn’t steal it.”

  “Where?” asks Beowulf, lowering his voice and speaking as calmly as he can manage. “Where did you find it?”

  “The bogs,” answers Cain, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “Through the forest and down to the bogs.”

  “The bogs,” says Beowulf, getting to his feet again.

  “I was lost,” Cain continues, rubbing his hands together, then wiping at his bloody lips. “Lost in the bog, and I thought I would never find my way out again. But I found a cave…”

  “A cave?” asks Beowulf. “That’s where you found the horn, inside a cave?”

  “Aye,” mutters Cain, nodding and looking at the bloodstain and snot smeared across the back of his left hand. He sniffles loudly. “I found it in the cave. There was so much treasure in the cave, my lord. So many pretty rings and bracelets, so much gold and silver and so many pretty stones. Such riches. Oh, and there were statues—”

  “And you took this from the cave?”

  “I did, my lord. But there was so much treasure. And I only took this one small thing.”

  “And that’s all you saw there?” asks Beowulf, glancing toward Wealthow, who’s watching the slave and so doesn’t notice. “Only treasure? No demon? No witch?”

  Cain looks up and shakes his head. “I was going to take it back,” he says. “I swear. I only meant to keep it for a time, then return it.”

  “There was no woman there?” asks Queen Wealthow.

  “No woman, my lady,” Cain tells her. “Only treasure.”

  And now Wealthow does look toward Beowulf, and her violet eyes seem to flash in the dim room.

  “No woman was there,” Cain repeats, and sniffles again.

  “Listen to me, Beowulf,” Unferth says, and takes a step nearer Beowulf and Wealthow. “While there is yet time, hear me. I know what this means.”

  “You know nothing,” Beowulf replies. “It is only some trinket, some bauble misplaced a thousand year
s ago.”

  “My lord, I have seen this horn before. I have held it, as have you and my lady Wealthow. This is no lost bauble. This is the very horn that Hrothgar gave to you.”

  “My king,” Unferth continues, looking anxiously from Beowulf to Wealthow, then back to Beowulf, “you have no heir. But I have a son. I have a strong son. Now, while there is time, name Guthric heir to your throne.”

  “Truly, it saddens me…how age has robbed you of your wits, friend Unferth,” says Beowulf. “But I will hear no more of this madness tonight or ever. Your slave found a trinket and nothing more.”

  “A trinket from a dragon’s lair,” hisses Unferth. “Goddamn you, Beowulf, I know—” But before he can finish, Beowulf turns around and leaves the anteroom, disappearing through the doorway, swallowed alive by the noise and smoke of the celebration and Heorot Hall.

  “I did not think you a man who spoke in blasphemies,” Wealthow says. Then she takes two gold coins from a pocket of her dress and holds them out to Unferth. “And please, take these in exchange for this man’s freedom.” She looks down at Cain, cowering on the floor. “I will not stand by and watch again while he is beaten like a cur for your amusement, old man.”

  Unferth blinks at the coins and laughs, a sick and cheated sort of laugh, a laugh tinged through and through with bitterness and regret. He taps his staff smartly against the flagstones and jabs a crooked finger at the queen.

  “I would take no gold from out this cursed house,” he sneers. “But if you wish a dog, my queen, then he is yours. Bid my lord to keep the golden horn for his own. I feel quite certain it has been trying to find its way back to him these last thirty years. Pray that none come seeking it, Queen Wealthow.”

  “Show him out, Wiglaf,” says Wealthow, returning the coins to her pocket. “Then please care for this poor man. Find him some decent clothes.” Then she sets her back to Unferth and follows her husband, shutting the door to the dais behind her.

  “I know the way,” Unferth tells Wiglaf, and as he hobbles slowly down the long hallway leading back out to the snowy night and his sleigh, the son of Ecglaf tries not to think about what he might or might not have seen dancing on a witch’s palm.